“They ain’t got the paintin’ of it,” said Mrs. Palmer, cutting a thread with her teeth. “It don’t happen to be their house.”
“Well, it’s all the same. It’ll git painted if Emarine wants it sh’u’d. Oh, Emarine! Where’d you git them funny teaspoons at?”
“They’re Orville’s mother’s.” Emarine gave a mirthful titter.
“I want to know! Ain’t them funny? Thin’s no name fer ’m. You’d ought to see the ones my mother left me, Mis’ Parmer—thick, my! One ’u’d make the whole dozen o’ you’rn. I’ll have ’em out an’ ask you over to tea.”
“I’ve heerd about ’em,” said Mrs. Palmer, with the placidity of a momentary triumph. “The people your mother worked out fer give ’em to her, didn’t they? My mother got her’n from her gran’mother. She never worked out. She never lived in much style, but she al’ays had a plenty.”
“My-O!” said Mrs. Endey, scornfully.
“I guess I’d best git the dinner on,” said Emarine. She pushed the silver to one side with a clatter. She brought some green corn from the porch and commenced tearing off the pale emerald husks.
“D’you want I sh’u’d help shuck it?” said her mother.
“No; I’m ust to doin’ ’t alone.”
A silence fell upon all three. The fire made a cheerful noise; the kettle steamed sociably; some soup-meat, boiling, gave out a savory odor. Mrs. Endey leaned back comfortably in her rocking-chair. There was a challenge in the very fold of her hands in her lap.